


Bonded

by nameloc_ar_115



Series: Centuries [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 1600 A.D., Alpha Talia Hale, Alternate Universe - Pocahontas (1995) Fusion, Anal Sex, Body Paint, Forbidden Love, Human Stiles, Humans as Settlers, Knotting, M/M, Mixed POV, Secret Relationship, Sex in the Moonlight, Werewolf Discrimination, Wolf Derek, Wolves as Tribesmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7247164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a wolf, a human, triskelion tattoos, and an offering to the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stiles

                He was queasy from the long voyage, the constant rocking of the ship. Solid ground under his feet was a welcome relief, and the cool air cured his nausea.               

                Stiles volunteered to act as the unofficial scouting party. After being packed with dozens of unwashed, spitting, cursing, belching men for days, he would rather face a wolf attack than spend another minute in the company of his crewmates.

                The land was all that had been promised and more. Lush, verdant forests and crystal-blue rivers. The soil was soft and fertile, rich and damp.

                Birds whistled overhead, woodland creatures scurried along trunks of trees too old and massive for Stiles' arms to fit around.

                They would do well here. Lumber was plentiful, the land was optimal for crops, water was fresh and abundant. No wonder there were wolves here.

                At least, that was the rumor. Other expeditions to new territories had uncovered werewolves: half-beasts with glowing eyes that ravaged men. It was said they had the bodies of humans but the claws and fangs of wolves. Apparently, some could transform into full wolves, a gross mockery of nature.

                This crew was better prepared. Stiles carried a knife at his waist and a musket slung across his back. Both blade and musket ball were dipped in a wolfsbane concoction, the only known poison for the beasts. They did not hurt like regular men. Their wounds healed before one's eyes, blood swallowed back up into their bodies like time had gone in reverse.

                Of course, these were just stories. Stiles was sure they had become somewhat sensationalized as they spread.

                As he moved through the shady forest, he heard the occasional snap of a twig, as if underfoot. He would tuck his musket tightly against his armpit and freeze, poised to fire, listening. The tip of his match cord glowed insistently in the dim light beneath the canopy. The moment he stopped moving, any irregular noises dissolved into the ambient hum and buzz of the forest.

                He paused once he reached the falls, crouching on a protrusion of rock that rose above the frothing water. Here, the crash and rush of the water overshadowed all other sounds.

                Stiles cupped a handful of water and slurped. He splashed his face, and even with droplets clinging to his eyelashes, he knew he had seen the sudden tremble of a branch in his peripheral vision. The leaves were bouncing faintly when he looked.

                He aimed his musket at the disturbed tree and then surveyed the rest of the forest in a slow arc.

                Nothing. Just like all of the other times. Every crack and crunch and rustle this morning had proven to be nothing. If some half-beast or other had been following him, intent upon wearing his entrails as a belt, he wished the monster would just _do it already_. The stress and hyperawareness were just as likely to drive him into an early grave.

                He sighed in exasperation and turned back to the falls, only to find a strange man standing in front of him.


	2. Derek

                Derek had been dreaming. The dreams didn’t contain the horror of nightmares, but they were ominous and clung to the forefront of his mind for days at a time. They seemed to indicate that something was coming, or already here.

                He needed guidance.

                Once he was away from the dens, he shifted and dropped to four legs as a wolf, loping to the great willow tree in the forest. The slender tendrils of young branches and green leaves tickled his muzzle and ears as he passed through the curtain of foliage. He huffed and shook his head, whiskers twitching, before sitting at the base of the trunk.

                A triangular hole in the bark served as an entrance, but neither wolf nor any other creature ever entered. One always waited for the Silver Wolf to emerge.

                Derek gave a supplicating whine for her attention, and no more could be done.

                Satomi, the Silver Wolf, was so old the color had drained from her fur coat. She lent her wisdom to any wolf who needed it, regardless of status. Her eyes burned the deep crimson of an Alpha, and all the wolves of the world were her pack.

                She did not shift into a human. Derek wasn’t sure if she could anymore, or if she just chose not to. One did not ask the Silver Wolf such things. She never spoke of herself or her origins. Even her name only spread through the mouths of other wolves, passed down orally from their ancestors, and no one could quite discern who had first voiced it.

                Satomi padded out from the willow’s trunk and sat opposite him.

                _Hello, child._

                Conversation with the Silver Wolf did not require verbal exchange, only the mental will of words. What Derek thought, Satomi heard, and vice versa.

                _I’ve been having dreams, Satomi. I don’t know what they mean, what I should do._

 _Tell me about them, pup._ All wolves were but pups to the Mother Wolf. 

_I'm running through the forest, and all is dark around me. I'm lost and afraid until a beam of moonlight reaches the ground, lighting my way through the trees._

_Where does the moon lead you?_

_I don't know_ , Derek replied, his thoughts tinged with troubledness _._ That was the part that bothered him the most about the dreams. He never finished them, never knew where the moonlight was taking him.

_Perhaps it's not time for you to know yet. The moon only shows herself at night, and the darkest hour has not yet come. Is there any reason you might feel lost, child?_

_My mother mentioned a union between myself and Deucalion today. She says he would make a strong mate._ Though Derek considered the older wolf ruggedly handsome and loyal and powerful, Deucalion had been rather cheerless since a fight with a rival pack resulted in him losing sight in one eye.

Satomi snorted with amusement _. Strong, yes. But there are other qualities that make a worthy mate._

_Are you saying I should tell my Alpha "no"?_

The Silver Wolf flicked her tail. _Only you can consent to a mating bond, pup. No one can make the decision for you. Not even Talia._


	3. Stiles

                Stiles' musket was trained on the man's heart. Well, the beast looked like a man in all the ways but one. His eyes glowed yellow, a bright, lemony shade, but the quality of the color was...liquid and glassy. Almost like jewels.

                The wolf glared at the barrel of the musket, his luminous eyes trailing along its length and then settling harshly upon Stiles.

                Shame burned through him, his cheeks going hot, and he couldn't help but feel like he was being reproached for bad manners.

                His heart thundered in protest, and his head screamed for caution, but he gingerly lowered his weapon and hung it across his back once more. Instinct told him to put the gun away. Those eyes were just...there was such a soulfulness to them, an intelligence. He hadn't thought—

                With the beast this close, his musket would be of no service anyway. His knife was still tucked into his belt.

                "Hello," he offered.

                The wolf's nostrils flared, and he sniffed in Stiles' direction. He didn't respond but moved back a pace.

                "Please, it's alright. I won't hurt you." Stiles winced as he said those last words. "I know that doesn't seem believable based on your first impression of me, but I was only protecting myself."

                The half-man blinked, his expression blank and impassive.

                "Can you understand me? My name is Stiles." He placed a palm over his chest when he spoke his name and then repeated it for emphasis. "Stiles."

                After several seconds of lingering silence, he sighed and placed his hands on his hips.

                "I am Derek," the beast announced.

                Stiles laughed in delight. At least they spoke the same tongue.

                "Why have you come here?" his new acquaintance asked. He was clothed in soft half-trousers that only reached his knees, made from some animal hide. Otherwise, he was bare from neck to feet.

                "To live," Stiles answered as if that was obvious. "The land is ripe and rich and uninhabited."

                Derek snarled. "It is _not_ uninhabited. Packs have lived here for centuries."

                Stiles flapped his hands, trying to be consoling. "I only meant by other men. I wasn't talking about beasts like yourself—"

                " _Beasts_?" If anything, the wolf's eyes grew more brilliant, until it felt like Stiles was staring into the sun. Derek's hands clenched into fists at his side. "Why am I not a 'man,' but you are?"

                Stiles was baffled. He sputtered to respond. "Because you're not human, of course."

                The half-man growled under his breath and turned to leave.

                Stiles grabbed the wolf’s hand and held him back. The prospect of Derek leaving seemed to be more worrisome than the one of himself being dismembered. He hadn't meant any offense, but he had insulted the wolf all the same.

                He struggled for the right words, amidst Derek's roar of indignation, his teeth now long and sharp and glistening.

                "I'm sorry. Don't go. If I was rude, forgive me." His voice was entreating.

                Derek pulled his wrist from Stiles’ grip but stayed. "We are not beasts," he gritted out between his fangs.

                "I won’t say it again," Stiles vowed. "I don't know what to call your...people."

                "We are wolves, and we are men." A deep crease formed between Derek's stern, furrowed brows. Like he was daring Stiles to challenge him.

                "Alright, Derek," Stiles began carefully, nodding in agreement. "But surely you know that you and I are not the same."

                The wolf-man crossed his arms over his chest, tanned from the daily exposure to the sun, one side of his breast adorned with a red pawprint and the other with a red handprint. Wolf and man. The muscles of Derek's upper arms flexed with the movement. They were nearly matched in height, but Derek was broader and thicker at shoulder and waist and thigh.

                “Your scent. It's unlike mine. Unlike anything I've ever known.”

                “It's probably because there's no wolf in me. Only man.”

                Derek was disturbed by that explanation. His scowl made his skin stretch taut over his sharp cheekbones, straight nose, defined jaw. The wolf’s heavy, black brows, drawn together with unease, only unified the whole sulky expression.

                “What do you mean?” the wolf-man grunted.

                Stiles’ mouth parted in a gape, but no sound came. It couldn't be. The wolves had to know. They must know that not everyone was like them.

                “I cannot transform into a wolf. Not even partially. I'm human.”

                Derek continued to frown. “There's only ever been wolf-men here.”

                “If it's any consolation, I had never met a wolf-man until today.” Stiles shrugged.

                The wolf’s countenance only soured further. “Why would that console me, invader? You come here with your vicious tongue, hoping to steal and rape our lands, threatening me with your—” Derek ceased his diatribe to gesture towards Stiles’ weapon.

                “My musket, you mean?”

                “‘Musket’?” Derek spit out the word as if it were dirty, as if he mistrusted the whole concept of this ‘musket.’

                “You know, a gun? Like _bang bang_.” Stiles shaped his fingers into little guns and pretended to shoot a nearby tree.

                Derek looked at him like he was insane. “It is a weapon of the whole-men, this musket?”

                “Yes.”

                The wolf scoffed. “How do you use it?”

                Stiles unstrapped the musket from his back and saw Derek tense. He slowed his movements and sat down, hoping to soothe some of the wolf’s anxiety. Stiles laid the gun across his lap, the barrel facing the falls.

                After seconds of deliberation, Derek sat across from him.

                “You pull this trigger,” Stiles pointed accordingly, “which drops the match cord and ignites the powder, and then the ball is propelled outward.”

                “I don't understand,” Derek stated.

                Stiles scratched his forehead with mild frustration. “Okay, let's try a more theoretical approach.”

                “This match,” Stiles pointed to the cord, “is burning slowly and when it lowers into that chamber, it causes a small explosion. And the force of that explosion pushes the ammunition, in this case, a musket ball, out of this tube at a high speed.”

                The wolf’s lips had puckered in concentration. “Then the ball does the actual damage, when it hits one's enemy?”

                “Yes,” Stiles exclaimed, grateful that they had reached an understanding.

                “How can a man die with honor if you do not fight him with your own hands? You kill him from a distance, without getting his blood on your skin or hearing his last breath. If you are to kill a man, you owe him that intimacy.”

                Stiles argued with a degree of hesitance, “It is safer to fight from a distance sometimes.”

                “In what case? It seems like cowardice to me,” the wolf grumbled.

                “In your case,” Stiles replied, not quite meeting Derek's eyes. “We are not evenly matched. I have neither your strength nor your claws, nor your fangs. I could not kill you on my own.”

                Derek’s expression darkened. “I doubt even your musket ball could. Wolf-men do not die easily.”

                “We have special ammunition.” Stiles patted his gun and grimaced. “Normally the balls are solid lead. The ones in our guns are hollow, filled with a powdered herb.”

                “What is it?” The wolf's eyes narrowed.

                “We call it wolfsbane.” He knew Derek would _not_ appreciate that name. “Apparently, it's very toxic to wolf-men.”

                “Why tell me this, human? To taunt me with my own death?” Derek’s voice turned rough as fangs grew out of his teeth, as thick, clear claws extended from his fingers.

                Stiles swallowed, and his voice remained firm. “I didn't come here to kill your kind. Only to make a home. I don't want anyone to die.” He placed the musket to his side and shuffled closer towards Derek on his knees.

                The wolf growled a warning, but Stiles ignored it. He outstretched his hand.

                “It's how we say ‘hello’,” Stiles clarified, reaching slowly for one of Derek's clawed hands. “Here, like this.” He pressed their palms together and arranged the wolf’s thumb and fingers until they fit properly around his own hand. He was mindful of the claws.

                Derek stopped snarling and stared at their joined hands. “And then you shake,” Stiles instructed, moving their hands up and down. “How do the wolf-men say ‘hello’?”

                The wolf glared and then leaned forward on his hands and knees, his face so close that Stiles could feel the humid breath on his lips. Derek’s elongated fangs kept his mouth ajar, but Stiles never felt even a scrape of teeth when the wolf-man nuzzled against his cheek.

                Stiles laughed when Derek pulled away. “Your beard tickles—But that’s nice. The, um, face caressing.” He touched his cheek, warm from the friction.

                Derek’s lips twisted into the beginning of what would have been a promising smile, but it was cut short when the howl echoed through the trees. The wolf-man tensed and raised his head, listening.

                “I must go,” he announced, rising to his feet.

                “Wait. I would like to see you again.” Stiles scrambled to stand and brushed his fingers lightly down the wolf’s forearm.

                A conflicted look crossed Derek’s face, but eventually, he nodded.

                “Tomorrow. Here,” Stiles proposed.

                “Yes. Yes, alright, Stiles.” Derek backed up a few paces, staring at him with an intensity akin to longing, and then turned and ran.


	4. Derek/Stiles/Derek

                When Derek returned to the dens, the pack had already assembled before Alpha Talia, his mother. He slipped into the back of the pack, his cousin, Malia, sending him an alarmed look, widening her eyes in a silent plea of where he had been all day.

                “—sent a group of wolves to watch them. They've chopped down trees to start making dens. They don’t smell of wolf, and they do not shift but remain as men at all times. When we tried to push them off our land, they used strange weapons that burst and burned like fire to repel us. Peter was wounded and is not healing.”

                A frightened hush of whispers traveled through the pack. Wolf-men could heal from most injuries.

                Talia flashed her ruby-red eyes, and the muttering ceased. “Deucalion, you will set out for the neighboring packs and seek their help. Until we are better able to fight these intruders, all wolves are to stay away from them.”

                When his mother finished speaking, he pulled Malia into a hug. She was shaking, smelling of fear and sadness for her injured father.

                “Take me to him,” Derek mumbled in her ear.

                She led him to the healer’s den, where Talia was already waiting, patting her brother’s fevered forehead with a rag. Alan had tended to him, and nothing else could be done.

                “I have never seen a wound like this,” his mother announced, voice grave. “Alan pulled shards of some dull, gray rock out of his leg.”

                _Lead_ , his mind murmured, recalling the word Stiles had used.

                His uncle's shin was coated with an herbal paste to relieve the pain. A delicate, black lattice of blood vessels spread outwards from the wound.

                Malia replaced Talia at Peter's bedside when the Alpha stood. She squeezed her niece's nape and kissed her forehead before approaching him.

                He shared his mother's dark hair and serious eyes and bone structure. She cupped his cheek on her way out and said, “Stay close to the pack, my son.”

* * *

                After sunset, Stiles and the other men were still laboring. Governor Argent had ordered them to finish the fort by the day’s end. They were supposed to be building a settlement, but Gerard argued that defense was of paramount importance right now. _The beasts would attack again._

                Stiles was working alongside his friend, Scott, erecting posts for a fence that would surround the fort. They headed back into the forest to hack down another tree, Scott telling him about the encounter with the wolves that day.

                “They were just as we thought,” his friend raved. “Eyes brighter than lanterns, sharp teeth, talons like those of an eagle. Their faces contorted into something other than human, Stiles. You should have seen it.”

                “I’ve had enough excitement for one day, Scotty.” He smiled and squeezed the man’s shoulder.

                Scott’s enthusiasm seemed to dampen when he next spoke. “Gerard was furious. I suppose he thought these wolves would thank him for violating their territory.” His friend spoke with a mild derision that was unlike him. Scott was typically all smiles and congeniality, so he must have been truly bothered. “He’s commanded that any wolf seen be shot on sight.”

                Stiles grabbed Scott’s arm and pulled them both to a stop. “What happened to killing only in self-defense?”

                “He doesn’t care about them, Stiles. We all knew that from the beginning.”  

                Yes, they had, but previously, it hadn’t mattered.

                The wolf-men had been more legend than reality until today. Before meeting Derek, Stiles wasn’t sure he would ever see one. He had felt nothing for them besides a morbid fascination to view these infamous half-beasts. He had not cared about them either.

                What now vexed Stiles was that Gerard didn’t merely disregard the wolves like the other men. He _hated_ them.

                Governor Argent would never change. He would never try to live amongst the wolf-men, Stiles understood that now. They were inferior—sub-human—in his eyes, and he would wipe them from the land out of practicality if not pure spite.

                Tomorrow, Stiles would warn Derek. The wolf needed to caution his people against the wolfsbane. They weren't as invincible as they thought.

                He and Scott decided on a tall but slim fir, good for posts once it was cut. Stiles had only just lifted his axe when he heard a whisper of his name.

                “ _Stiles_.”

                He followed the sound to a pair of dazzling eyes that peeked out from behind a nearby tree. They twinkled like stars amidst the darkness of the woods.

                “Derek?” He stepped forward and heard Scott hissing over his shoulder.

                “Are you _crazy_? Don’t go near him, Stiles.”

                “I know him. Please, wait here for me. Don’t tell anyone.” Stiles looked back at his friend, his eyes desperate and pleading.

                Scott sighed and nodded, holding his musket against his chest, the axes abandoned.

                The wolf dragged him a little deeper into the darkness and nudged him behind a wide tree.

                “I thought we were meeting tomorrow,” Stiles whispered. The moonlight filtering down through the branches made the wolf’s face look pale and drawn. Something was wrong.

                “My pack attacked your humans today,” Derek blurted, his eyes darting across Stiles’ face, almost frenetic.

                “I know. When we were together. Scott told me. What is it?”

                “My uncle was injured, with one of your wolfsbane balls. He’s not healing.”   

                Stiles’ stomach hollowed, and he automatically clutched Derek's elbow. “I'm so sorry. My people—they've been ordered to kill any wolves they see. _Oh god_ , you can't be this close to camp.”

                The wolf resisted Stiles’ attempts to usher him deeper into the forest. “I'll leave as soon as you tell me how to help him. _Please._ ”

                Stiles sighed. “Where was he shot?”

                “The lower leg. Our healer removed the lead pieces.”

                Stiles squeezed his eyes closed in concentration. “You have a good amount of time then. Once the poison reaches his heart, he'll die.” At Derek's outward shudder, he added, “But that's not going to happen.”

                He emptied a musket ball from his barrel and pressed it into Derek's palm. “Crack it open, pour the wolfsbane directly into the wound, and then burn it out. Your uncle should return to health after.”

                Derek clasped his nape with a quick pulse of pressure. “Thank you.”

                “We should wait a few days before trying to sneak away again. Tempers are too unstable right now.”

                “How long?” the wolf whispered.

                Stiles was oddly comforted by the strain in Derek's voice, as if the separation displeased him, too.

                “Three days from tomorrow morning. I'll meet you at the falls.”

                Derek nodded and dashed off, engulfed by the blackness of the inner forest.

* * *

                Derek slinked into the healer’s den, appearing only as a concerned nephew. Malia had fallen asleep, holding her father’s hand. Peter was still feverish, but it was impossible to tell whether he was unconscious or simply sleeping.

                He shook his cousin awake and received a bleary, confused look from Malia.

                “I know how to help him,” Derek whispered. This was not knowledge he wanted to share with the rest of the pack right now. It would lead to inquiries about the source of the cure.

                “How?” she gasped.

                “Do as I say, Malia. Without question. You’re my family and my closest friend. I need you to trust me.”

                Her eyes expanded with fear and uncertainty, but she nodded.

                “Uncover his wound.” Malia pulled the fresh leaf away from the hole in her father's shin while Derek crumbled the lead ball in his palm, cupping it so that none of the poisonous herb spilled.

                For one horrifying moment, Derek considered that Stiles might have lied to him. That he was pretending to be compassionate and tolerant in order to abuse Derek's trust and kill Peter. What if his uncle was already healing, and the toxin just took a long time to degrade? Derek might be truly poisoning him by adding more wolfsbane to the wound. Maybe his secret meetings with Stiles were just opportunities to learn intimate knowledge about the pack.

                Derek ground his teeth together. If he did nothing, Peter might die when he had the means to save him. And if he killed his uncle by following the advice of a human he had known less than a day…well, there would be no returning from that. His Alpha and his pack would never be able to look at him again.  

                Yet, Stiles couldn't have known he would meet a wolf-man at the falls this morning. The humans were new to this land and the residing packs’ locations. Nor could Stiles have known about the attack in advance when the wolves had initiated it, when he had been with Derek all the while.

                Unless Stiles had the foreknowledge of a god, there was no way for him to know that any wolves would be poisoned, that Derek would come to him at nightfall for help.

                He thought of Stiles’ grin, his tender touches, how the human hadn't recoiled in proximity to his lethal claws and fangs. Stiles couldn’t smell _that way_ and be a threat to Derek or his pack. A wolf always heeded its instincts, its senses.

                “Malia, give him something to bite and keep him quiet.” His cousin shoved a clean rag into her father's mouth and covered it.

                Derek poured the dark-gray powder into his uncle's wound, pushing the herb deep inside until his entire fingertip sank into the flesh. The pain awakened his uncle, his moans muffled by the cloth while Malia shushed him and combed his damp hair.

                Derek retrieved a burning branch from the small fire warming the healer’s tent and held it close to the wound. The wolfsbane must have been flammable, for the powder caught fire in a rapid puff of heat and light, spitting out a small, blue flame and white smoke. Even with Malia absorbing his pain with a wince, Peter’s agony drove him back to unconsciousness.

                Malia removed the cloth from his mouth, crying silent tears.

                When the last wisps of smoke cleared from the wound, Derek saw the black tendrils of decay recede into the raw hole and disappear. The flesh left behind was healthy-pink and bloodless, absent of rot and pus.  

                “Cousin, come see this,” Derek beckoned, faint amazement trickling into his voice.

                Malia covered her mouth when she saw the improvement. “What did you do, Derek?”

                “I met one of the whole-men today. I went to him for help.”

                “You _can't_ , Derek. They're dangerous. You heard what your mother said.”

                “He saved Peter. Your father would have died without my friend's help,” Derek reminded her. “And he wasn't there during the fight. This wasn't his doing.”

                Malia’s mouth flattened, her disapproval warring with her gratitude.

                “Tell them he suddenly got better. That the healing just took more time,” Derek insisted, gripping his cousin’s shoulders. Her eyes were wary and guarded. He was asking her to deceive her Alpha; it was not a small favor. Furthermore, she would need to be careful if she was going to explain her father’s miraculous recovery without uttering a lie that the other wolves would detect. “They need to know that the poison in the whole-men's weapons is dangerous...but they can't know about my friend. I am _begging_ you, Malia.”

                His cousin squeezed his hand in brusque reassurance. “Fine.”


	5. Stiles

                Stiles slipped away from camp before sunrise, too anxious to sleep any longer. The last few days had been uneventful, a temporary stalemate of sorts. The humans were building while the wolves were waiting for reinforcements. In the interim, they did not fraternize.

                With one exception of course.

                Derek glided soundlessly through the trees some time later, Stiles nearly falling into the river when the wolf tapped his shoulder. The wolf-man moved in silence naturally, and the din of the water against the rocks made the task of hearing him just impossible.

                Derek wrapped sturdy arms around his middle and hefted him away from the edge of the rock. Stiles turned in his grip, and instead of releasing him, the wolf's hands dragged along his lower back and ended cupping his waist.  

                “Hello,” Stiles said breathlessly, unable to stop the smile from rising to his lips.

                The wolf nuzzled his heavily-stubbled cheek against one of Stiles’. “Hello,” he rumbled.

                “How is your uncle?” He slithered from Derek’s grip and bit his lip in slight disappointment when the wolf freed him without fuss or reluctance. That was an unfair expectation. Stiles walked to the beginnings of the forest and sat on a tuft of soft grass.

                “Back to his old self. He was completely healed within a few hours.” Derek smiled, soft and lovely, and touched his hand. “Thank you.”

                “Of course,” Stiles gushed, his voice quiet but infused with feeling and sincerity. “I’m glad he's alright.” The intensity of his emotion must have startled the wolf, based on the way he stared. Stiles chided himself, flushing. That was ill-timed, inappropriate. He scrambled to change the subject.

                “Your hand is missing,” he blurted. Derek lifted one eyebrow with equal parts skepticism and judgment. “Here,” Stiles amended, touching the left side of his chest.

                “Oh, I-I was anxious to see you. I brought the paint with me.” It was Derek's turn to blush.

                “I see. You can't do the pawprint on your own?” Stiles snickered and pointed to the gleaming wolf print on his chest, the paint still wet in the center.

                “It's hard to manage the paint pot when you have no fingers or thumbs.”

                “Do—” Stiles choked on his saliva, making a great spectacle with his coughing fit. “Do you want me to finish it for you?”

                “Alright,” Derek rasped. “If you don't mind.” Stiles tracked the wolf's Adam's apple through a deep swallow, his own mouth going dry at the sight.

                Derek fetched a small jar he left over by the rocks. “Get a thick coating on your palm and fingers,” he instructed.

                “You do this every morning?” Stiles inquired, smearing his hand through the bright, bloody paint.

                “Yes. The red paw and hand is the mark of my pack. All my brothers and sisters bear it so that other packs know who inhabit this territory. And it's good for bonding. It entertains the pups,” Derek’s face broke into a private smile, “Allows different pack members to interact every day.”

                “If the paint is a sign of your pack, what is this?” Stiles touched the black spirals between Derek’s shoulder blades with his clean hand.

                “That is the sign of my blood family. My mother, cousin, and uncle all share the same tattoo.”

                “It’s beautiful,” Stiles commented, not realizing until too late that he was practically in Derek’s lap, leaning forward to peer over the wolf’s shoulder. He cleared his throat and sat back, assuming a thin façade of professionalism whilst pressing his reddened palm to Derek’s breast.

                The skin was warm, like Derek had been washed in the dry, billowing heat of a fire. Stiles exhaled, about to babble his way out of another awkward situation, when he lifted his head to find the wolf’s face so close to his that their noses bumped.

                He had thought Derek’s wolf eyes were stunning, but they could not compare to the ones he was gazing into now.

                Gemstones. Crude, sea-green chunks veined with liquid mercury, the pupils ringed with gold-flecked copper. They were beyond mesmerizing.

                Stiles stared into those entrancing eyes and lost all sense, for he found himself tipping forward to taste Derek's lips.

                The wolf’s mouth parted in immediate submission, and the relief was almost as sweet as Derek’s tongue. Stiles groaned, their lips clinging and breaths harsh. Derek's scorching hand slipped under his shirt to cradle his spine, and the fabric across his groin became tight and confining.

                “I want you,” the wolf gasped when their mouths separated. Meanwhile, Stiles could hardly comprehend the words when his eyes were trained upon Derek's rouged, glossy lips.

                Stiles had kissed and bedded in the past, but he had never debauched. Derek appeared utterly wrecked, his jaw slack and his eyes heavy-lidded. This was new and intoxicating. To be wanted so fiercely.

                Passion coursed hot through his blood, filling his cock and draining his head quick enough to make him dizzy. He wanted to burrow against Derek's firm body and absorb his heat, plunder his soft mouth to ruins.

                “No more than I want you,” Stiles assured between more kisses. His clean hand snuck to the front of the wolf's hide trousers and groped his hardness.

                Derek's eyes glowed their brilliant yellow. “But we must wait.” Stiles’ aggrieved mewl prompted a further explanation. “The wolf-men worship the Mother Moon, the one who first instilled the wolf in the man and made us. We answer her call every month, as a sign of devotion, and all important events happen in the moonlight. Matings, burials,” Derek licked his lips. “Breeding.”

                A wisp of a moan escaped Stiles’ quivering lips. “Oh, please, Derek,” he whispered. “Yes. Please.”

                “Tomorrow night. After sunset. I have something I want to show you, and then—” Derek exhaled, his hand twitching as it cupped one of Stiles’ cheeks. “—then, I'll take you beneath the Mother's light.”

                Stiles realized his paint-coated hand had stayed pressed to Derek's chest all the while, and when he finally pulled it away, the shape of his own print stood vividly against the wolf's skin.

                He liked the thought of leaving his mark upon Derek, that his hand would be resting over the wolf-man's heart even when they parted.


	6. Stiles

                Derek met him at the falls the following night, but led him to a part of the forest unfamiliar to Stiles. They stopped upon reaching a magnificent weeping willow, the leaves dense and streaming, the branches slender and green. The hanging greenery slipped across his shoulders like silk, rustling as he passed.

                “I cannot summon the Silver Wolf as a man,” Derek told him.

                “How will I understand her?”

                A gentle smile nudged the corners of Derek's mouth. “She is very powerful. You'll hear her.”

                Derek kicked out of his deer-hide trousers and shifted into a full wolf. It was a little breathtaking to witness.

                Stiles fell to his knees and outstretched his hands, hoping Derek would come to him. The wolf, black as midnight, blended into the dark but for his luminous eyes.

                Derek's cold, damp nose bumped Stiles’ palm, making him laugh. His muzzle traveled along Stiles’ inner arm until the wolf could rub his head under Stiles’ chin.

                He hugged Derek, hands sinking deep into his sleek coat, resting a cheek against his warm, furry neck. Affection swelled within him, suffocating him, and he didn’t want to let go.

                “I think I love you,” Stiles whimpered, burying his face into the wolf's satiny pelt. It was an unfair thing to say at a time when Derek couldn't respond, but he hadn't meant to. It had just bubbled out of him.

                The black wolf whined, and Stiles released him when he heard the trampling of twigs and dead leaves behind them.

                He saw the Silver Wolf leave the trunk of the willow, padding forward gracefully. She looked in Derek's direction for several seconds and then turned to Stiles.

                He cast a panicked glance towards Derek, unsure of what to do. He didn't think he was in danger; Derek had said Satomi was a kind of sage.

                The Silver Wolf stalked right into his personal space, their noses almost touching, and inspected him with eyes that sparkled like rubies.

                “Hello, Satomi,” he wheezed, suddenly short of breath.

                She sniffed at him, making a rumbling noise. Stiles thought it was an approving sort of sound, but he couldn't be sure.

_Hello, Stiles._

                He wished he could've said he maintained his composure, but he fell back onto his ass with a yelp. To be fair, a wolf _was_ talking to him. _In his head._

                Derek _whuff_ ed in amusement and barked.

 _Derek tells me you're a whole-man._ The Silver Wolf backed away to give him space, and without her snout poking into his fragile throat, his nervousness dissipated. She was majestic, with a quiet dignity that Stiles had never seen in an animal. But then, Satomi was not just an animal.

                “Yes, ma’am—Satomi. I am, yes.”

                A smooth chuckle danced in his head before the Silver Wolf spoke. _I like the smell of you, child._

                Stiles blushed and scratched his forehead. “Um, thank you. I bathed this morning.”

_No fear, no cruelty, no hatred. Just love and worry and affection._

                Helplessly, his eyes flicked back to Derek at the mention of love. “I don’t think I’m entirely responsible for that.”

                 _Perhaps not, but you've always had a tender heart. Listen to it in the coming days._

                “What's coming?” A frown, laced with distress, tugged down the corners of his lips.

 _Not even I know that, dear boy._ The Silver Wolf nuzzled one cheek, much like Derek did, and Stiles couldn't help but stroke through the puff of pristine, metallic fur between her forelegs. She returned to the great willow, disappearing into the mouth of the trunk.

                Derek pushed at Stiles’ knee with the flat of his head, yipping.

                Stiles grinned and whispered, “Catch me.”

                He saw the wolf's ears prick to attention before dashing into the forest. He only had a vague idea where they were, but Derek would know.

                It was invigorating to feel the wind comb his hair, the chilly, night air to kiss his skin. He took deep, satisfying gulps of air as his lungs worked, the burn of exertion making his limbs tingle.

                A black blur passed him, darting through the trees ahead, and he laughed with giddiness. Derek reappeared when Stiles broke through the line of trees and entered a clearing.

                The wolf tackled him to the grass-cushioned earth and left Stiles sprawled and panting on his back. Derek slipped back into his man-skin while Stiles regained his breath.

                “You caught me,” Stiles murmured, a saccharine smirk spreading over his lips.

                Derek crawled over him, naked, pinning Stiles to the ground at the wrists and hips. “Did you mean it?” If Stiles couldn't have detected the desperation in Derek's voice, he only would have needed to look in his wide, searching eyes.

                He nodded and felt the wolf sag against him, all hot weight and steamy breath.

                “Mother Moon is watching,” Stiles remarked, pointing his chin to a sky of black velvet, interrupted only by the radiant pinpricks of stars and the stark face of the moon. Without the trees greedily sucking up the moonlight, they were bathed in its glow.

                “It feels good,” Derek breathed, his eyelids fluttering. The sight nearly drove Stiles to hysterics, and he squirmed in the wolf's hold. “Like all my senses have peaked. I can smell your sweat and your musk.” Derek inhaled deeply, and to Stiles’ slight mortification, buried his face in Stiles’ armpit.

                Stiles jerked in shock, and the wolf’s laugh was a deep rumble. “I can hear the drumming of your heart, Stiles. What will it do when I—?” His voice broke off as he crawled down Stiles’ body to press his nose against his crotch.

                Stiles moaned, and pushed his clothed cock against Derek's face. Which was just bad manners, but the wolf-man didn't seem to mind. He growled and prodded his nose under Stiles’ balls.

                “Let me kiss you,” Stiles pleaded. Derek released his wrists, the wolf’s handsome face hovering above him. He surged upwards, his neck straining, and captured Derek's mouth.

                Stiles wound his legs around the back of his lover's thighs, forcing their hard cocks to grind together. He drank the noises from Derek’s mouth and explored his body with needy touches.

                He had the smoothest skin Stiles ever felt, bones jutting and muscles bunching under his hands while Derek rolled their hips together in a sensual rhythm.

                “I need to be naked,” he panted against the wolf's lips. “I need to feel you against me.” He felt a prick against his mouth as Derek's fangs unsheathed from his gums.

                “Stiles, are you alright?” Derek's eyes widened with concern, resembling two little suns. He grazed a finger over Stiles’ bottom lip to make sure he wasn't bleeding.

                Stiles sucked the finger into his mouth, nipping at it teasingly. It proved an effective method to quell Derek’s fussing. “I'm fine. Flattered, actually.”

                Derek snorted, but the tension left his shoulders.

                “Undress me, please,” Stiles said, in what he hoped was a coquettish voice.

                “I shouldn't.” Derek lifted one hand, presenting his limpid claws.

                “I know you'll be gentle with me,” Stiles murmured, a smile edging into his features. He had never been less worried in his entire life.

                Derek peeled his clothes away with unwavering care. His claws unknotted the laces of his trousers and the undershorts beneath them. He eased a finger under each side of the waistband and pulled the fabric away. He did the same with the shirt, and Stiles laid back to feel cool grass against his skin.

                “In my trousers, the pocket—there's—”

                Derek extracted a small jar of oil and examined it curiously.

                Stiles cleared his throat, ignoring his hot cheeks, and explained, “It's a salve for dry skin, so it still kind of applies.”

                “It's for you?” Derek still seemed confused of its purpose, his brows crumpling adorably across his forehead.

                “For both of us. It, um, will make our coupling smoother.” Stiles coughed.

                Derek's eyes burned so brightly Stiles couldn't look at them head-on. “Oh,” the wolf replied in a clipped tone that bespoke comprehension. “Of course, if it pleases you.”

                “It would please me to cover you head to toe and rub against you,” Stiles admitted, chuckling. “Alas, I haven't brought enough with me.”

                Derek turned his face away in what seemed to be bashfulness. He was sporting another one of those sweet, private smiles that made Stiles want to kiss him for endless hours.

                “Let me ready myself for you.” Stiles opened the jar and slathered two fingers with oil. He touched himself, the one place where his skin felt as hot as Derek’s.  

                The wolf watched him finger himself with silent absorption, puffing moist, frustrated breaths against Stiles’ belly. The wolf lapped at his navel and nuzzled the hair surrounding his cock. He sucked each of Stiles’ nipples into his mouth and suckled them around his overgrown teeth. His claws skimmed across Stiles’ skin with a lightness that made him shudder and tremble for more.

                Gradually, Stiles added another two fingers until he was comfortable with the stretch. Derek made a low, rumbling noise all the while.

                He added more oil to his slippery fingers and circled Derek's cock. It had been dragging against Stiles’ hip and thigh while he opened himself, leaving a trail of thin, glistening wetness behind.

                “That's it,” Stiles groaned, slicking the wolf's ample cock, the fat head bulging through the ring of his fingers. He urged Derek's cockhead to his hole and shivered.

                “I'll let you do the honors.” He smirked, his voice airy.

                His lover's hard cock forced a space for itself amidst Stiles’ fragile insides, filling him ruthlessly. It burned, even with Stiles’ preparation, but the sensation as a whole felt _extraordinary_. Derek reached places that Stiles never knew existed, never knew could bring him pleasure.

                He clung to the wolf-man as Derek panted above him, immobile and shaking, releasing an impassioned snarl.

                “Derek, your face—” He was more wolf than man now, with hair sprouting from his cheeks, his brow becoming more prominent, ears lengthening to a point.

                “Is that alright? I don't think I can control it right now,” he slurred between his distended fangs.

                Stiles caressed his cheek. “It's wonderful. You’re so very _perfect_ , my love. Move for me now, please?”

                Derek rocked his powerful hips, plunging his cock deep inside, and Stiles had to bite his lips to hold in his cry.

                “Mother above, I want to mate you, Stiles. I want to bite you and have you as my own.”

                Stiles whimpered. “You can't. I'm so sorry. You can't right now.”

                “I know, I know,” the wolf replied in a wounded whisper. “They can't see.”

                Derek fucked into him over and over, his rim pulling taut with each repetition. At the peak of Stiles’ pleasure, he fisted his cock and sprayed his release across his belly. The wolf licked a streak of come that landed high on his chest, and simultaneously, Stiles felt a bright, stinging pain where they were joined.

                “What's happening?” Stiles mumbled, lax and lethargic from his climax.

                Derek huffed, “I’m knotting.” The wolf was still dipping inside him with deep, sure strokes of his cock.

                “You're what?” Stiles asked, and now, his voice was a little shrill with alarm.

                The wolf stopped, although it seemed to pain him, judging by the grimace on his pretty face. “You don't knot?” he asked almost shyly.

                “Why don't you tell me what that is, and then I'll let you know.” He rubbed one of Derek's forearms bearing his weight to soothe him.

                “Before I spill, the base of my cock…” He paused, his eyes big and sheepish. An incompatible expression for a wolf.  

                “...gets bigger?” Derek nodded miserably and well, that wasn't allowed. “I can inform you with absolute certainty that humans do not do that.”

                “I can finish by my own hand,” the wolf assured.

                Stiles frowned and clasped the wolf's chin in his hand, demanding his undivided attention. “You will finish in one place, and one place only. Inside of me, whilst working yourself to a truly stunning completion. Understood?”

                “Yes, my love,” the wolf rasped, resuming the smooth undulations of his hips.

                Stiles could feel the knot slipping farther into his hole with every thrust, and the pain was as sweet as it was devastating. When Derek finally coaxed his swollen knot into the wet clutch of Stiles’ ass, he bit back a howl and rutted through his pleasure.

                The wolf collapsed onto his chest and curled his arms around Stiles so that he could roll them. Stiles laid across his lover, his knees bearing the pressure of his new position. It was pretty good, overall.

                He was sensitive enough that he swore he could feel Derek's cock pulsing against his stretched hole as he released gushes of warm come. It might have been his own body throbbing, but they felt seamlessly connected right now, and it was too difficult to tell.

                Stiles’ hand searched blindly until it found Derek's hair, and he combed through it. He lifted himself from the wolf's chest and stretched for another kiss, wet and full of teeth since the fangs had not yet receded.

                They traded warm, languid kisses while their sweat cooled and Derek's knot deflated. Claws dragged over his back and raised ass cheeks, an unexpectedly loving sort of touch.

                They washed in the cold waters of the falls, sluicing the scent of man and wolf off of each other. Bathing led to splashing and laughing, then to kisses of reconciliation and hands sinking beneath the water.

                Derek knotted him again, on their hands and knees, like the wolf-men did with their mates.

                They had to wash again.


	7. Derek/Stiles

                Derek woke to howling. He crawled out of his den, blinking past the morning sunlight, and followed the noise to one of the riverbanks. Many wolves had already gathered to meet the incoming packs. Deucalion had been successful in recruiting two, increasing their combined numbers to over one hundred. Derek shuddered to think how the humans would fare.

                A knowing prickle danced up his spine, and he fought to keep the tension from his shoulders. Deucalion stood at his side, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t a cruel wolf, but he had hard eyes and twice the number of Derek’s years to perfect his solemnness.

                “With our brothers and sisters joining us, we will crush these invaders. They haven’t seen real wolf strength yet.” Deucalion’s left eye squinted in the brightness, the cloudy right one wide-open and glassy, unresponsive to the sun.  

                The Alpha welcomed the new packs, and her booming voice gave Derek an excuse not to respond. Sickness was welling up inside of him, and he was investing all of his energy into controlling his scent. He didn’t think he could guard his words, too.

                They returned to the dens, and Derek found his mother through the mass by the triskelion on her back.

                He rushed for her. “We don’t have to do this.”

                “What, my darling?” She sensed his alarm and guided him into her den with an arm around his shoulders.

                “Fight these whole-men. So many will die. We should try and speak to them, find some compromise for peace.”

                His mother’s face pinched into a cross expression. “My son, you’re speaking madness. These whole-men don’t want peace. They want our land, and they want us dead.”

                “But what if one of them did want to talk of peace? You would listen to him, wouldn't you?” Derek’s voice was nearly imploring.  

                Talia huffed, her eyes flashing irritably for a few seconds, but she replied, “Of course I would, Derek. I would never harm anyone who came to us for help.”

                “When do you plan for war, Alpha?”

                “A few days. After our brothers and sisters have rested, and I have planned a strategy with the other Alphas.”

                Derek nodded, his heart palpitating with nervousness, pumping anxiety through the rest of his body. He pushed through the flap of his mother's den, leaving before he made her any more suspicious of his motivations.

* * *

                “Stilinski, where have you been?” a voice barked. Stiles found Gerard standing amidst the bustle of working men, his jowls set in a permanent, grim expression.

                “Scouting the terrain, sir.”

                The old man nodded. “Good. You can tell us where the beasts are living.”

                Stiles gawked but recovered quickly. “Sir?”

                “We've waited long enough. The half-men will strike soon, and we need to attack first to keep the upper hand.”

                “Sir, if we could only meet with these wolf-men...I don't think they want a war any more than we do.” _Excluding yourself, you old snake._ Gerard was salivating for a war.

                The governor sneered, his lips receding from his crooked teeth. His eyes were beady and black and mean. “Don't be simple, boy. These abominations don't want peace with us. They want what we've conquered.”

                “You mean what's theirs,” Stiles corrected.

                Gerard countered him with a heated glower. The men around them had stopped working and were now watching the exchange.

                Stiles surveyed the men and saw faces friendly to him. “I've met one of these wolf-men.” He continued, keeping his voice firm despite the jeers and complaints of his peers. “They know this land better than we ever will. They could help us make a prosperous settlement here. If we speak to their Alpha, I know that we could make a compromise to coexist.”

                “The beasts don't want us living among them, you fool,” the governor growled. “They want to slaughter us and push us back into the ocean.”

                “Isn’t it worth trying if it could prevent people from needlessly dying?” Some of the men’s outraged expressions flickered and softened.

                Perhaps Gerard noticed the same trend, for he cast a cursory glance at them and bellowed, “We lead the attack tomorrow morning. Stilinski will lead us to their camp. Any man who doesn’t have wolf-blood on his hands will be chained and shipped home for treason.”

                Fury burned through Stiles’ gut, and he squawked, “You mean an _ambush_. They have children and elderly.”

                Gerard’s mouth trembled with anger, and spittle flew from its corners with the force of his yelling. “ _Enough_. Beasts come in all shapes and sizes, all ages. Keep your goddamned mouth closed, Stilinski, or I’ll chain you to a post tonight and leave you for your beloved half-men.” The governor stomped back to his tent.

                Stiles looked to the men, but they avoided his eyes and dispersed. Only Scott remained to rest a woeful hand upon his shoulder.


	8. Stiles

                Stiles missed his wolf. When they were apart, an ache pervaded his body down to his bones. Only Derek could replace the pain with sweet relief and pleasure.

                But he needed to see him tonight anyway. The pack had to know that wolfsbane bullets would be raining down on them in only a handful of hours, once dawn broke.

                He knew the men didn't condone striking a camp that contained civilians unawares. But they were afraid to test Gerard’s wrath—some had to consider their families back home. For others, ignorance was just deep-rooted. They didn't all have a Derek to show them their folly like he did.

                If he warned the wolf-men, would more humans die because of it? His friends? _Scott_? There was no favorable outcome if the fighting commenced.

                He crashed into Derek's arms, burying his face in the wolf's warm neck. With the cascades of water pounding the rocks behind them, everything felt like it was shattering apart.

                “I can't stand that scent on you,” Derek murmured, dragging his nose along Stiles’ throat, behind his ear.

                “Derek, they're going to attack the dens at sunrise. I tried to talk to them, but—” He shook his head with misery.

                “My news isn't any better.” The wolf sighed.

                A small hiccup of breath escaped Stiles. “What are we going to do?” He cupped Derek's face, scratching through his beard.

                “Come talk to my mother. She'll hear you out. Maybe we can we stop this before it starts.”

                “Alright. Alright.” Stiles nodded and kissed the wolf, melting in his embrace.

                A growl echoed in the trees behind them. Stiles saw an unfamiliar set of yellow eyes over Derek's shoulder. The wolf charged, and on instinct, he pushed Derek to the side.

                He used his musket as a bar to keep claws from gouging an eye or tearing out his throat. Even so, the wolf was shoving him backwards, Stiles’ bootheels digging in protest as he was forced closer to the edge of the rocks.

                Derek roared and tried to wrench the other wolf’s arms off of the gun. “Deucalion, _stop._ Leave him alone.” The older wolf unleashed an elbow, the blow hitting Derek in the face so that he fell backwards.

                Stiles was able to pivot slightly, giving him more ground under his feet. The muscles of his arms were cramping and trembling, and soon, they would give out altogether.

                The sharp _crack_ of a musket being fired resounded. Stiles’ heart lurched, his eyes immediately skipping to Derek, who was sprawling on the ground with a bloody nose but was otherwise unharmed.

                The handprint on Deucalion’s chest started dripping, and Stiles stared with both fascination and confusion before he realized the liquid wasn't paint and wasn't red. Black blood leaked from the wolf's breast, shards from the musket ball having penetrated his back, punctured his heart, and forced themselves through the skin of his chest.

                There was no healing him when his failing heart pumped contaminated blood throughout his body, when the wolfsbane corrupted the organ itself.

                Deucalion died as quickly as a human would have from a fatal gunshot. His eyes faded from a golden glow to an indiscernible color in the darkness, and his body toppled into the water.

                Death had claimed the wolf so abruptly that Stiles wasn't sure he was even in one piece. He felt his own arms and chest and belly for reassurance. The aggressive beating of his heart was a good indicator, too.

                Derek jumped into the water and grabbed one of his packmate’s limp hands, claiming him before the current did. Stiles seized the body under the arms and pulled while Derek took the legs and stumbled back up the rocky bank to land.

                Stiles understood. Derek couldn't just watch one of his brothers be carried away, facedown, like a piece of driftwood. He deserved a funeral and a burial, in whatever fashion the wolf-men performed them.

                Scott emerged from behind a shaggy hemlock, his musket still raised and smoking, rattling as his hands trembled.

                Derek growled at him, cradling his fallen brother's head in his lap.

                Stiles moved between them, holding a hand out to warn Scott not to come any closer. “Derek, he only thought he was protecting me.”

                His friend looked pale and washed in the moonlight. “Gerard saw you leave. He told me to follow you. Stiles, I thought that wolf—”

                Howls filled the forest, and Scott's eyes widened until the whites shone in the dark.

                “They're coming,” Derek warned, trading his own worried look with Stiles.

                “Scott, get out of here.”

                “Not without you,” Scott objected, his voice rising with fright.

                “There's no sense in both of us being taken,” he urged. Stiles clambered to his feet and shoved his friend in the opposite direction of the descending pack. “ _Please._ Get back to camp. Stay safe.”

                The howls rang, overlapping, advertising the large number of incoming wolves. “I have Derek with me,” Stiles asserted, a last-ditch effort to convince Scott to leave.

                His friend groaned and nodded, darting into the forest.

                Stiles returned to Derek's side and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. He wouldn't leave him. He couldn't.

                As Derek lifted his head to the wind, nostrils flaring, mouth poised to speak, the pack burst onto the rocks. Some were full wolves, others were in half-shift, and the remaining men donned claws and fangs.

                Alpha Talia—she must be, resembling Derek so much—took the latter form, but her eyes burned a rich crimson.

                “ _Derek_. What is this?” she growled. Stiles felt her eyes land on him, but he didn't dare meet them for fear of being eviscerated.

                He was the only human present. It wasn't difficult to fit the pieces together. His musket was still slung around his back.

                A girl, maybe Stiles’ age, stood just behind Talia, chocolate-brown hair blowing around her chin. Her big, dark eyes were shedding tears.

                “Derek, I told Deucalion that you left. I was worried about you. I didn't want you to get hurt, too.”

 _Too._ The girl must have been Derek’s cousin, Malia, whose father had been shot. She could hardly be blamed any more than Scott. They were both just looking out for their loved ones.

                “Alpha, please,” Derek begged. “This wasn't Stiles’ fault.”

                “You disobeyed me. Your mother and your Alpha. Your lies and deceit have led to the death of your packmate. Take the human.”

                Two wolves moved forward and grabbed each of Stiles’ arms, dragging him roughly to his feet.

                Although her burning eyes did not soften, the Alpha’s voice was morose when she announced, “He will die at sunrise. The first of the whole-men to die.”

                “ _No. No._ Please, mother. Don't do this.” Derek rocked to his feet, several wolves forming a wall in front of him. “You _can't_ —”

                “ _Silence,_ my son.” Talia’s head snapped in Derek's direction, her eyes flashing. Her son whimpered and bared his neck, lowering his eyes. “I'll hear no more.”

                “Stiles, I'm so sorry,” Derek wheezed.

                When the wolves yanked him back to the dens, his lover's heartbroken howl reverberated through the forest.


	9. Derek

                Derek sat on his heels, trying to calm his breathing. He was a volatile amalgamation of emotions right now, and his inner wolf was clawing and thrashing beneath his skin.

                “Cousin?” Malia kneeled beside him, nuzzling his cheek, attempting to comfort him. “I’ll take you to see him.” A heavy, stifling silence sat between them, and then Malia whispered, “He only has a few hours left.”

                Derek nodded, reeking of anger and sorrow and salty tears.

                “He wants to see the whole-man,” Malia declared to the two guards stationed at the entrance of the den holding Stiles.

                The wolves looked at one another with uncertainty, and his cousin added, “He's the Alpha’s son. Will you really deny him?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

                They let him pass.

                Stiles was tied to the support column that rose through the center of the den, his arms bound behind his back. His head lifted when he heard someone enter. A teary grin broke across his face when he realized it was Derek.

                “Hey, handsome,” Stiles greeted, leaning his head against the column. The human watched him approach from under his fanned eyelashes.

                Derek dropped to his knees and scooted closer. “Are you alright?” He turned Stiles’ head, checking for any injuries.

                “Yes.” Stiles pressed a cheek against his palm.

                “I should’ve left you alone, that first day we met. None of this would be happening. You would be safe.” He kissed Stiles’ forehead and nose and jaw, asking for forgiveness, ending with his lips.

                “Don’t be dumb,” Stiles chastised lightly, affection seeping into his words. He knocked their foreheads together since he had no use of his hands. “We might’ve played a part, but we didn’t start this war.” The whole-man sighed. “And I would rather die tomorrow than regret having met you.”

                “You aren’t scared?” Derek asked with incredulity. He was terrified even thinking about tomorrow.

                Stiles smiled, warm with sympathy. “Of course I am. But this couldn’t be avoided. I made my choices, and I wouldn’t change them.”

                Derek slumped against him, hugging him around his middle, burying his face into Stiles’ warmth.

* * *

                When the guards escorted him from the den holding Stiles, Derek fled the pack. He needed to be alone. Well, no, he needed to be with _Stiles_ , but this was the only other bearable option right now.

                He stripped out of his clothes as he ran, tossing them to either side, and shifted. Derek crashed through leaves of the willow and found Satomi already waiting for him.

                _I could sense your pain all the way from the dens, child_ , she stated, a knowing edge to her tone.

                _Help me. The pack is going to kill him at daybreak._

                _Stop them_ , the Silver Wolf replied. As if it was just that easy.

                _I don’t know how._ He whined and huffed in anguish.

                _Your dream, pup._

_What about it?_

                _The night is dark, and the moon is bright. But the sun will come soon. There’s no time to waste._

 _Satomi..._ He cast a glance back the way he came. The night was well underway, and the trees shrouded the forest in blackness.

 _Follow the moonlight_.

                A thrill ran through Derek, a shock of insight, of sudden understanding. He wagged his tail, ears twitching, and licked his chops restlessly. _I know what to do._

Satomi chuckled. _Go then, child._

He bolted through the trees, a trail of moonlight spilling in front of him to guide his way. When he reached his scattered clothes, he transformed into a man and continued to run on two legs. He reached the dens as the sky brightened with the first glimpse of the sun.

                Stiles had been taken to the flat rocks that lined the edge of the cliff. He was kneeling upon them, Derek’s mother behind him. One hand gripped his shoulder to keep him in place, the other already sporting deadly claws in preparation.

                The packs had already convened for the execution, and Derek pushed through them to the front of the crowd.

                His Alpha raised her claws for the killing blow, wrenching Stiles’ head back by the hair, exposing his delicate throat. Derek flung himself forward, curling around Stiles who released a soft yelp of surprise. Derek cupped his lover’s nape, his cheek pressed against Stiles’ neck. Hiding it, safeguarding it.

                “Derek, out of the way,” his mother demanded, mouth pursing in anger.

                “You can kill both of us or neither of us. But I will be with him either way. I love him.” He looked up at his Alpha, a direct challenge. “If you kill him, you will guarantee a war. You’ll convince the whole-men that everything they thought about us was true.”

                The pack turned away from him and Stiles, and Derek bristled along with his fellow wolves. The unusual scent, the rumble of stampeding feet and united shouts. The humans had come for them, just as Stiles had promised.

                Stiles’ friend who had killed Deucalion—Scott—was one of the whole-men at the front of the crowd. He blanched when he saw Stiles bound, at the mercy of the Alpha. The leading point of the human force was an old man, a ring of white hair circling his bald crown. He curled his lip in disgust and stepped forward, toting his musket against his chest. There was no kindness in those eyes or that mouth.

                His mother glanced at the whole-men, her eyes bleeding deep red, but her claws receding. The humans had arrived with their muskets brandished, prompting the pack to flaunt their claws and fangs.

                Talia straightened, her shoulders squared and her head high. “My son speaks with wisdom rather than vengeance or hatred. He is right. If this war must occur, let it be said that the wolf-men did not want it.” She sent a purposeful glance at the wolves, who let their claws and fangs retract.   

                Derek witnessed the reaction to his mother’s words. The anger dissolved from many of the humans’ faces. The scent of relief wafted from them, many letting their muskets droop in their arms or fall to their sides entirely.

                Derek slashed the rope binding Stiles’ wrists and pulled the human to his feet, linking their fingers. It meant a lot to Stiles’ men, to see him unharmed and unrestricted, choosing to stand next to a wolf.

                The only one who didn’t appear moved by the display was the bitter old man.

                His glistening black eyes sliced through the crowd of whole-men with displeasure. “Can’t you see what the beasts are doing? They’re trying to lull you into a feeling of safety. They’ll tear out your throats the moment you lower your guns,” he shouted.

                “They let Stiles go. They’ve put away all their weapons,” Scott pointed out. “And you’ve wanted this war all along. You don’t care about peace or your men. We’re just a means to your end, and I’ll have no part in it.” The human slid his musket around his back, his mouth a moue of defiance.

                The other men followed Scott’s example, their muskets clicking and clanging as they hung them over their backs or shoulders.  

                “ _Fine_ ,” the old man hissed. “I’ll do it myself.” He pointed his gun at Talia and fired.

                Derek felt a sharp tug at his hand where Stiles pulled his fingers free. The human shoved the Alpha out of the weapon’s path and fell to the ground, writhing in pain and cupping one shoulder.

                The wolves didn’t make a move for the old man. They didn’t need to. The humans surrounded their leader as he cried out his defense.

                “The idiot jumped in the way,” he griped, before another man silenced him with a musket to the face. The old man dropped to the rocks unconscious.

                “Stiles, _Stiles._ Let me see it. Move your hands, love.” Derek clasped the bloodied hand that Stiles lifted from his shoulder, leeching as much pain as he could.

                Stiles exhaled. “It’s just a graze. The wolfsbane doesn’t need burned out, just cleaned.” His mouth scrunched with confusion. “It doesn’t hurt. A moment ago—”

                “I’m taking your pain. Look.” Derek cocked his head towards their joined hands. The intricate network of veins in his arm coursed black with Stiles’ hurt.

                Stiles craned his neck, his eyes widening. “Incredible,” he breathed with a smile.

                Derek kissed his hand, blood-covered and all. “I’ll take you to our healer.”


	10. Derek

                Stiles was sailing home, and Scott was accompanying him. Most of the whole-men decided to remain now that a truce had been reached with the wolf-men. The old man, Gerard, was also departing, but that was not by his own choosing. He was bound and gagged and stowed beneath the deck of the ship, awaiting the crew’s and captain’s pleasure to leave.

                Alan had made a sling for Stiles’ bad shoulder and extricated the shards of lead, but to prevent infection, he needed _medicine_ , something the self-healing wolves did not possess.

                All the wolves and humans came to the shore to say their farewells. With no war in sight, the neighboring packs had been sent home.

                Talia stepped forward and nuzzled the side of Stiles’ face. She shared a rare smile and touched his cheek like she would a pup. “You are always welcome among this pack, Stiles. We wish you good health.”

                Stiles turned to him, a trepidatious smile adorning the human’s lips. They had been ignoring their goodbye all day.

                “Here’s a paste.” Derek handed him the crushed, gooey herbs, folded in leaves. “To take the pain when I can’t.” His mouth twitched into a bittersweet smile.

                “Don’t worry. Scott will take good care of me,” Stiles assured, and his friend nodded his assent. 

                “Maybe I should come with you,” Derek suggested. How could he not worry when Stiles would be an ocean’s-breadth away, injured?

                Stiles scoffed and thumbed over his cheek. “And leave your pack and your family and your home? I think not. I came here because there was nothing left for me back there.” The human’s face grew sincere, his eyes intent upon Derek’s face. “I’m coming back for you. And for that mating bite I promised you.”

                Derek kissed him. Long and solid and hot. “I love you.”

                “I love you, too,” Stiles murmured. “I’ll think of you when I’m beneath the Mother Moon.” He winked and boarded the ship, Scott following him. The crew untied the ship and its sails, and it began to drift to sea.

                Stiles leaned over the stern’s railing, bathed in the colors of sunset, and gazed back at Derek like he was the only thing worth staring at in the entire world. 


End file.
